There exists no object too sacred for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Elected to curse with an undying fragment of his emaciated soul. Not the first draft of The Art of the Deal sent to him by ghostwriter Tony Schwartz, nor the China-made engine of his private jet.

My partners, a brave disabled ginger and a keen Muslim woman, fled our mission, fearing for their safety. I alone can blend in at Donald’s rallies, with my scarred pale skin and a worldview created from under a staircase.

Shredding the Trump University “accreditation” certificate Donald printed out himself was easy, a hollow husk of a horcrux, even he must have known would crumble under the slightest inquiry.

But it was David Duke’s white hood that nearly derailed me. It screamed profane names for Obama as we burnt it. To this day, Trump’s butler Anthony Senecal mutters its dying epithets on Facebook.

The horcrux Donald left in a “small million-dollar loan” from Trump Mortgage folded in on itself. Why he would sacrifice any part of himself to a loan and credit venture in 2008, I’ll never understand.

In my best night I destroyed ten horcruxes, the top halves of Donald’s original fingers, each one planted deeply into the bosom of a female employee he promoted solely to degrade and manhandle for sport.

How he manages even the most basic of tasks now with those tiny leftover stubs, I struggle to fathom.

The horcrux he left in a Trump Steak was tough. Not just to destroy, but to eat. I soaked it in a case of syrupy anti-freeze-laden Trump Wine to swallow whole, and knocked out two horcruxes in one nauseous evening.

But I worry the taco bowl will break me. It carries Trump’s love for Hispanics.

And it is a dark dark love. Perhaps even bordering on hate.

Vanquishing the horcrux in his tax returns will be quick. There’s actually much much less in them than he wants you to think.

My gravest challenge will be the hair, that jaundice-themed spider’s web, which cost Donald $60,000 from Ivari’s line of surgical hair interventions, and must be devoured strand by strand like Lucifer’s spaghetti.

It makes my teeth shiver to think about.

Donald plans to erect another horcrux in the Wall, and make Mexico cast the spell to put it there. Mexican officials say that makes no sense, and everyone agrees. It doesn’t.

But to his followers, there is no reason, only an unforgivable Imperius curse blinding them to mindlessly chant, “Make America Great Again,” a nonsense incantation stolen verbatim from Reagan’s 1980 campaign, the last time a “silent majority” of uneducated muggles complained that they could no longer be as racist in public as they would like.

Donald’s final horcrux, once thought to be indestructible, will be our greatest sacrifice.

Hillary.

Donald transmitted a foul scrap of his human-adjacent life-force to her when she attended his third wedding. He disguised it as a campaign contribution, one of many he gave to Democrats up until this election year.

The prophecy foretells that neither can live while the other survives. Trump cannot be destroyed with Hillary as our nominee.

And so, to save us all, the woman who lived must sacrifice herself, and let He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Elected feel his final burn.